


I'll crawl home

by donutcats



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Fix-It, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-13
Updated: 2019-06-09
Packaged: 2020-02-28 20:29:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18763639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/donutcats/pseuds/donutcats
Summary: Ain't it a gentle sound, the rolling in the graves?"I have an idea. A stupid dangerous idea that no one will agree to." Julia says, quietly.She tells Eliot about a plan that involves the underworld and rescues and rope for some reason.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> the finale was, to put it lightly, bullshit. so I'm kind of fixing it. yet another 'rejecting canon' fic, but I try to focus more on eliot and how he's handling things. since the finale did a bad job of it. also the whole fillory 200 or whatever years in the future thing? more bullshit. it never happened. High King Fen and Fresh Prince Josh are ruling Fillory and things are as ok as they can be in fillory. so I say it, so shall it be.
> 
> this was meant to be posted as one long fic, but I got too impatient and I haven't finished it yet, so I'm chopping it up into a few different parts. fingers crossed I can actually finish this, because I really like the idea and plot and whatnot. please don't be afraid to leave constructive criticism! please enjoy what I have so far

Eliot stays in Fillory for all of two days before he feels like he can’t be there anymore. At first, it feels good. It feels like a change of scenery. It’s a breath of fresh air after inhaling smoke and soot and the scent of peach. It was Fen throwing her arms around him, laughing and crying in equal measure, stumbling out excited apologies when he groaned in pain from her assault.

It was nice. It really was. That first day felt a bit like a dream. Maybe it was the opium in the air, actually. That would explain a lot. He spent time around the castle, ate the various things Josh whipped up. Took walks through the gardens even when Margo said he shouldn’t because he was still healing. Because it didn’t matter, he was _alive_.

Which, is when the second day in Fillory decided to emotionally kick his ass. On one of his walks around the castle, trying to find something to occupy his time while Margo pretended like she wasn’t trying to get her crown back, and Fen pretended like she wasn’t flirting with Margo, and Josh pretended like he didn’t notice. It left no room for Eliot to pretend like he cared. It’s how he found himself in the excuse for a castle library. It was looking better these days, filled with more books. Fen’s doing, no doubt, and that made Eliot smile as he ran his fingers over some of the books.

See, the thing is. Maybe he should care. Maybe he should be sat with Margo, brainstorming the various ways to get her back on the throne. Maybe he should be the stalwart husband he always fails to be with Fen. Hell, maybe he should be relaxing and eating whatever new magic LSD laced pastry Josh comes up with. But the simple fact is that he can’t do any of those things because it all feels a bit hollow. Like something is wrong and missing, and he knows exactly what it is but he doesn’t want to actually put it into words. Because if he does. If he acknowledges the empty space in his heart the size of a black hole, then it’s real.

So instead of actively thinking about it, that thing that he won’t even let Margo talk about, he tosses his cane at the nearest bookshelf and curls up in the little alcove of the library. It hurts. It does nothing but hurt and he was _trying_ to brush it away, like he does with most life changing things. He did so well that first day. He smiled and only let it be a little bitter around the edges. He had the perfectly measured output of grief that people expected from him. Hurting but not letting it bother him because he was _Eliot Fucking Waugh_.

Except it sort of does bother him. A lot of things bother him. His hair is too long and his clothes are too big for his body and he’s _alive_ somehow. For the first time in what feels like, weeks, months, years maybe; he cries. He presses his arms against his face and he cries over everything he had and lost and lost again. Eliot remembers waking up after surgery, slightly achy with Margo’s hand like a vice around his, and she told him with tears in her eyes, “you’re ok now, it’s ok.” How can he look his Bambi in the eyes and say _you lied to me. It’s not ok, Margo. I’m not ok._

The next morning he sends a bunny to Penny, asking for a ride back to earth. He knows it won’t change anything, that the pain won’t go away, but he can’t stay in Fillory anymore. He just can’t. Whenever he looks around he just sees a place he doesn’t belong anymore. A failure of a king and a husband masquerading as someone who thought they had confidence. Fillory isn’t his anymore, and if he’s going to wallow in his self hatred and pity and sadness, he rather do it in a place where he doesn’t feel like he’s tarnishing any last good memories Quentin had of this place. His breath catches at just the thought of that name and he really needs to leave.

Eliot learns from Penny that Alice left to help out whatever is left of the library, that Kady is still around but barely involved in anything that isn’t about hedge witches. She still lets everyone bunk at her apartment, but she’s removed herself from whatever’s left of their core group.

“It’s just Julia and I most days.” Penny shrugs after they’ve popped in to the extravagantly modern and open floor planned apartment. Eliot has little to no memories of this place. And maybe that’s why it hurts less here. Because when he looks at a couch or the stairs or into the kitchen there’s no lingering ghost memories.

“I bet you’re not complaining.” Margo comments, an eyebrow raised at Penny, but Penny doesn’t take the bait. Margo insisted on coming with them. More like demanded it, on threat of death if Eliot didn’t let her.

_“I spent too long getting you back, asshole. If you really think I’m going to let you go this easily you got another thing coming.”_

And he smiled, because it was nice, to see this side of Margo. The worried clingy side that she only revealed to people she truly loved. She hasn’t let go of his arm since, and he’s not going to be the one to move away first.

Penny rolls his eyes, makes his way to the kitchen. “Yeah, ‘cause what I want is to fuck the girl who’s in mourning. Grief is a real turn on.”

“He has a point.” Eliot drawls, calmly. In that way he’s taught himself to.

“Don’t get your boxer-briefs in a twist, jesus.”

Margo is turning to face the kitchen, to continue whatever little snippy conversation they’ve started, but Eliot just feels tired. He just woke up about two hours ago in Fillory, but that doesn’t mean much when he only got an hour of sleep before that. So he drags Margo towards the stairs, assuming without knowing that there must be bedrooms somewhere. He just wants a bed to smother himself in.

A few seconds later, after the struggle of refusing to let go of Margo and trying to stumble up the stairs with a cane- before Margo snatched it from him and gently told him to _use the fucking handrail_ , Eliot faces down a few different doors. Now comes the fun of wondering which one is a guest bedroom. Before he can take a step forward, a sudden fear grips the back of his neck, seeping into his throat and his chest and freezing his whole heart. What if he opens a door and it’s Q’s room. What if he sees leftover clothing and cold rumpled bed sheets and-

Before he can completely spiral, two things happen at once. First, he feels Margo’s grip on his arm tighten, the vague bite of her nails through his shirt as she turns to him, concern written across her face; and second, Penny pops into the hallway, in front of a door near the end with a bowl in one hand and a glass filled with water in the other.

“The second door on your right is free, if you’re looking for a bed.” He opens the door in front of him with a practiced ease, juggling around a bit as if he’s done this countless times before. Eliot gets a glimpse of a dark interior as Penny slips in, the door shutting snugly behind him. For a brief second he wonders why he didn’t just pop into the room itself.

 

**_\---_ **

 

The moment he gets into the bed, he refuses to leave for the foreseeable future. Margo tries sitting with him for awhile, running her hand through his hair, untangling all the little curls gently with her nails, but he can feel how restless she is. When he tells her she should go back to Fillory, she rejects the idea. Tells him Fillory can wait it’s fucking turn.

But the thing is, Eliot knows without having to be told that she’s spent so long worrying over his well being that right now, he’s alive and safe, and not a priority. At least, not any higher on the list than Fillory, as much as he’d like to bask in Margo considering him more important than an entire world.

Realistically, he can’t let her sit here in the near dark as Eliot does nothing but wish he could let himself feel everything he needs to without the fear of breaking completely. Fillory needs her, never more than Eliot does, but right now he can let Margo go and get something she deserves.

She’s spent too long agonizing over him, she deserves something that’s hers. Something that she can go after with wild abandon. So he convinces her to go, kisses her knuckles and her cheeks and tells her honestly she should go. He can’t make his mouth say the words _I’ll be ok_. It feels like a lie. Margo finally relents, and tells him if he needs absolutely anything she’ll drop whatever she’s doing to come back. Even if she’s in the middle of epically insulting some dignitary or letting someone go down on her, nothing’s more important than Eliot.

It warms his heart, and he feels a spike of true joy at her words and her face and her lips against his. Because she’s so genuine when she says it, when she pecks her mouth to his and swears if he needs her, he has her. He lets her go, lets Fillory have her for now. Eliot knows she’ll be back, she always is, and when he needs her she’ll be there.

An hour after she was meant to leave, the door creaks open, and a shaft of early evening light manages to creep it’s way in. Eliot is ready to roll over and dramatically tell Margo that if she really can’t leave, then the least they can do is take a much needed nap together. But the words die on his tongue when he’s greeted by the sight of Julia. Her frame looking even smaller with the large duvet bunched around her shoulders and spilling at her feet.

She has no makeup on, her hair twisted up and out of her face, and the smile she gives him is all the sadness he won’t let himself feel. “I heard you didn’t want to get out of bed today. Funny coincidence, neither do I. Mind if we share a bed to wallow in?”

Eliot isn’t sure exactly what to say at that moment, so he nods, and watches Julia shuffle over and crawl into the space next to him. He sees a flash of Penny in the hall, closing the door behind Julia, leaving them alone. “What about Penny? I wouldn’t think you’re lacking in company with him around.” Is what finally comes to him after she’s settled herself in, adding her blanket the other multitude of layers on the bed.

“It’s less about me not wanting Penny’s company, and more about Penny’s company isn’t what I need.” She turns to him, eyes big enough to rival his Bambi’s. “He gets it, I know that. The sadness that seems like it’s made a home at the bottom of my chest. The hurt of _losing_. But I think he gets a little lost when it’s turned towards Q. He tries his best, he does. But there’s something specific about this sort of sadness.” Julia reaches out, softly, as if she didn’t just punch a hole through Eliot’s stomach with that one letter, and she lays a hand on his arm. “You get it, though.”

 

**_\---_ **

 

Margo keeps him updated on her new venture to win back her crown. But to Eliot, in the quiet moments where he listens to the rasp of the messenger rabbits voice, or reads the letters attached to a collar made of string when she has too much to say, it sounds like Margo is somehow falling face first into maybe accidentally making it sound like she’d rather marry Fen then usurp the throne. Which is. Interesting.

The days pass by mostly uneventful aside from the daily Margo News, and Eliot finds himself in a bit of a depressive slump. He knows it, he recognizes it, but he refuses to do anything about it. If you asked him last year if Eliot Waugh ever wallowed, he probably would have scoffed. Now is different though. Now he lays in bed, only getting out when he has to. He lounges on the couch in the living room, flips through books and television channels and tries to find something to wipe away the numb boredom. At least he’s not actively hurting, not like how he was in Fillory.

Once, when the hurt had finally settled into something numb and stagnant, he made a decision. He got out of bed to wander into the room that used to be Quentin’s. Because he _had_ to. Because there was an insatiable need to know if his things were still there. It looked tidy, things put away where they should be, but Eliot opened a drawer and saw shirts just stuffed in with no regard for wrinkles, and it was that little detail that cracked something inside of him. He spent the next half an hour sitting on the bed, a shirt pressed to his face, holding back the tears.

Eliot takes a handful of the shirts, a hoodie he finds, and sadly enough, one of the pillows back to his room. He folds the shirts, puts them in the dresser he’s started considering his own, next to the button ups that are now too big. The hoodie gets hung on the back of an armchair in the corner, and the pillow is shoved onto the bed. No one would question anything out of the ordinary if they looked.

Eliot is grieving, and he knows it’s in a quiet way. An unobtrusive way. Where he pushes it to the corners of everyone else’s minds, because he doesn’t believe he has the right to grieve. Not like Alice, not like Julia. She said he _gets_ it, and maybe he does. But he shouldn’t. He smashed Quentin’s heart on an ornate tiled floor because he was _afraid_. Eliot doesn’t get any rights to actively openly mourn over this boy who he made believe he’d never want.

So instead of dwelling, he closes his bedroom door and tromps down the stairs, towards the kitchen. Instead of remembering all of the ways he’s hurt what he considered the love of his life, he focuses on feeding himself. Undoing the damage the Monster did to his body. Eliot will put weight back on if it’s the last thing he does, God help him. Gods. Various Gods help him. Please actually, he thinks he needs it.

That’s another thing he should worry about, something that deserves top billing over his tangled shattered emotions. The leftover effects of having a God killing Monster in his body for. Weeks, months? Too long. Not only did it almost destroy his body, but now he has the weirdest cravings for _Starbucks_. Like, who the hell is he? Wanting Starbucks of all things. Eliot french presses his coffee using fresh beans because he most definitely is that bitch, he has no qualms admitting. But now he’s loathe to admit that he knows where every Starbucks is located in a four block radius from the apartment, and somehow he knows exactly how to get to a little Starbucks in Prague of all places?

He wishes the Monster left him with better superpowers. Anything besides a higher tolerance of hard drugs, his knowledge of a coffee franchise, and a pile of graphic tshirts that he keeps forgetting to burn.

Armed with a bowl filled with something consisting mostly of rice, Eliot wanders his way out to the balcony of the penthouse. He likes it out there. It’s calm and quiet and there’s no weird left over feelings of being a passenger in his own body whenever he sits out on one of the patio chairs. He feels like himself again.

Sitting on the edge of the balcony railing is Julia, cigarette in her mouth. It doesn’t surprise him, not really. Being a whole half of the only four people that seem to live in this apartment nowadays, you tend to bump into each other a lot. They, specifically, tend to find each other, a lot. Almost unconsciously.

Eliot wonders if that’s another side effect of having a lost little brother living in his skin. Or maybe he’s more lonely than he thought and Julia is always nice to talk to. Since that first day in the bed, they’ve been talking more regularly. Eliot finds himself telling her things he hasn’t even told Margo. Not because he doesn’t trust Margo or love her or want to talk to her, but because most of the things they end up talking about relate to Quentin in some form or another, and with Julia it’s just easier.

He can say something like, “You know that crease he gets between his eyebrows when-“ and that’s all it takes before Julia is nodding and laughing a little and saying, -“when he’s pouting? He used to do all the time when we were kids.” It’s almost effortless.

Today looks like one of the bad days though, no smiles to greet Eliot as he makes himself comfortable in the chair closest to her. Some days feel better than others, some days they wake up and they both feel a bit hopeful for whatever lies ahead of them. Other days it feels like nothing will ever feel ok again. She takes a long pull from the cigarette, watches the smoke dance away into the cool breeze.

“You know what’s really fucked about all of this?” She asks.

“I could come up with a list or two, if pressed.”

“I’ve kind of always been bracing myself for this.” Julia says it like a fact, crossing one arm against her stomach, the other elbow leaning into it.

“For what, exactly? Sitting in a penthouse eating depression meals and trying to remember how to be human again?”

A little smile tries to show itself on her lips, but she twists it away with a fond roll of her eyes. “No. For the whole. Losing Quentin Thing.”

“ _Oh_.”

“It wasn’t a thing I ever really thought about until Q was first admitted to a hospital. Before that I just kind of knew Quentin would get sad sometimes, I knew he had depression, but I never really thought too much about it. After that, I was like, hyper aware. Is this going to be the last hello? The last hug? When am I going to wake up one morning to a call from his father that he mentioned me in a note?”

The smoke continues to curl and cloud, up and away, and Eliot finds himself watching it. Finds it’s easier to try and catch patterns in it, than watch the way Julia presses her back into the railing and sucks on the cigarette like it’ll offer condolences.

“The idea of losing Quentin was just a constant fucking thing in the back of my mind, and every day that I got to see him was a blessing. And, I know he didn’t kill himself. I know it was more than that. But, it’s like I was preparing myself for this, and now that he’s gone? After years of telling myself one day it would happen? I can’t even accept it.”

The cigarette gets flicked over the balcony. Eliot’s rice surprise has gone a bit cold by now. He doesn’t really know what to do, or say. He knew Quentin had depression, was suicidal at points. You don’t spend fifty years that almost were with a person to never know those types of things. But it’s different for Julia. They were clear moments for her, not just a muddled bucket of memories that come and go only when he focuses on that life. She lived it, and remembers it.

“I think,” he starts, slow, as he puts his bowl on the table and leans forward, “If you easily accepted his death, you wouldn’t be the person you are. It hurts and it’ll _always_ hurt because you- because _we_ loved him, Julia. It doesn’t matter if we knew the exact time it was going to happen. It doesn’t change a _fucking_ thing.”

Another thing he’s been doing a lot with Julia. Talking about those terrible little squirmy feelings of his. The ones he keeps trying to convince himself he has no right to. She has a way of making him feel like he does.

There’s that smile of hers. The soft sad one. Julia reaches out a hand, reaches for Eliot, and he meets her half way. It feels familiar, in a weird muscle memory sense. But he doesn't really remember a time when him and Julia ever held hands before now. But then her fingers squeeze his, and.

A woman touching his face but not his face. The comfort the touch brought him but not him. _Sister_. He remembers remembering the word. How it first felt on his tongue, how it felt to remember that word existed. A hand holding his, not so much walking with, as leading him around a park. He remembers in the way it's not his memories. A lingering after effect.

A hand in his. The curve of her palm and the bend of her fingers. Familiar. _Sister_.

He squeezes back.

“You wanna get drunk tonight, Eliot?”

“Oh, you know me too well.”

 

_**\---** _

 

They started out on the couch. Eliot knows this for a fact, and yet he’s currently staring up at the ceiling. At some point they decided the floor looked much more comfortable. Their shoulders press together, and he can feel them move every time Julia breathes.

She turns to him then, blinking those big eyes of hers. “You’re allowed to be sad, you know that right? You try to hide it, but you don’t do a very good job at it.”

“Of course I know-“

“You love him Eliot. You’re allowed to mourn. Why do you think I talk with you, instead of _Alice_.” The name twists in her mouth, comes out sounding a bit tangled and bitter.

“They were together, Julia-“

“The topic of Alice Quinn is for a completely different day, but the cliffnotes is that Alice Fucking Quinn doesn’t get the monopoly on crying over Quentin. She doesn’t get to claim rights to grieving their on again off again toxic relationship. We do, we get that claim. Because for all intents and purposes Eliot, he was _ours_.”

There’s a fire in her voice, as she turns on her side to face him, as she leverages herself up to look at him. There’s conviction, in the way she says the word _ours_ , and it makes Eliot choke up a little.

"I love him so much." Eliot whispers, into the settling silence, wine drunk and grief tired. "I loved him and I never got to tell him."

"He knew." Julia whispers back, the roaring fire in her voice ebbing down to embers. She kicks away the empty wine bottle as she lays back down, as she rolls closer.

"But he _didn't_. He wanted to- to give us a chance. But I shot him down. And then everything went to hell and. Julia, I never got to tell him _how much I really love him_. He died thinking I didn’t want him, when that’s all I’ve ever wanted in my life."

Julia’s fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt. "I have an idea. A stupid dangerous idea that no one will agree to." The words are quiet against where she presses them close to his shoulder.

And he's a little glad she doesn't reply to whatever confession just spilled out of him. A little relieved that instead of questioning or pitying, she takes it and folds it up, tucks it into her pocket, and uses it as a very good reason to quietly tell him about a plan that involves the underworld and rescues and rope for some reason.

Eliot clutches Julia closer, the both of them curled into each other, sharing the breath between them as they whisper back and forth. Two broken hearts ready to do whatever it takes to get back the part of themselves they lost.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant to update this fic a lot earlier, I swear. but life got in the way, as it likes to do. funnily enough I had most of this chapter written out before I even posted chapter 1, but it's taken me like what, a whole month to finally fill out the rest of it? 
> 
> I want to apologize if some parts seemed rushed in this chapter, I'm just so ready to actually get this out before it sits in my drafts for however long, that I tried my best to wrap things up and set up certain plot points. personally, I like to think it fits the shows format a little better, switching between scenes and explaining as it goes. but that's just the excuse I'm giving myself lmao

There’s a tower of books stacked precariously high in the middle of the floor, with Julia only a few feet away, amongst a different nest of books. They got a bunch of books from the Brakebill’s library, anything that seemed like it could help. Most of which came from the time Julia and Quentin were looking for their own way into the Underworld, before they stumbled on the whole _Dragon_ thing.

_“You didn’t tell me we’d have to do actual research.” He complained, when she first dropped a book into his lap._

_“I only have half of a plan, Eliot, and most of it consists of what ifs and maybes.”_

Her hair is pulled into a braid, tied off with a sea colored scrunchie. It’s an odd detail to notice, but Eliot has been staring at the same set of pages for the past hour and his brain is sort of swimming. He’s never been the studying type. More the type to flip through some relevant books and guess his way through most school projects because he always had other, more important things to do.

Julia scribbles out something in a notebook, and then switches to one of the many books she has laying open. Eliot tries to focus back on whatever it was he was reading. Because he feels like maybe he should help with this thing. He doesn’t know what else to do, since right now it’s nothing but the planning stages of this rescue mission they concocted. If Eliot had something to do, instead of reading, he’d feel a lot more useful.

He’s not the planning type. He’s the questing type. Eliot is the person that acts out the step after planning. Hand him the plans and send him off and he’ll be grand. But the _planning_ part makes him restless. The words continue to blur, some Greek myth about the Underworld losing his interest.

Just then, Penny pops in, and Eliot can feel the relief wash over him. But before he can get up, before he can press Penny with any type of conversation that isn’t about books, the sight of his ire in Penny’s arms pulls him up short. Yipee. _More books_ . Gods, Eliot might actually miss the days where he slept all the time and wished to stop existing. It had to be better than _books_.

Penny crouches down and gently lays the books into a new pile by Julia, quietly handing her a coffee from that hole in the wall cafe she really likes. She startles at first, blinking up from the tome in her lap, but then she catches sight of the styrofoam cup and Penny hovering close and she smiles. Nay, she fucking _beams_. It’s small and soft but bright nonetheless, and Penny returns it, fingers lightly tugging at the end of her braid.

“Don’t overwork yourself, ok?” He says, voice that steady calm only Penny 23 can manage. Julia rolls her eyes and nods, says something in reply but Eliot has already clocked out.

It makes something in his chest twist and squirm. Seeing them like that. And ok, he understands why, he’s at least self aware enough to know that he feels like he had that and it was ripped out of his hands. First by himself and then by Q. Just because he knows, doesn’t make it any easier. Doesn’t make the guilt at feeling that way easier to swallow.

Because someone deserves to be happy. In their fucked up lives where it feels like one hit after another with no breathing room, they _deserve_ this. He watches as Penny brushes some hair from her face, as Julia turns back to the yellowing pages. She starts to talk, to explain something, and his smile never wavers. They’re happy and it hurts, and Eliot _hates_ that it hurts.

Penny sticks around for a little longer. Settling in and dragging some books close, flipping through a couple at the top of the nearest piles. He catches Eliot’s eye more than once, and makes a few faces, like he’s sharing in Eliot’s disdain for academia. It makes Eliot smile, return a look of dramatic pain. The knot filled with thorns loosens just a bit and it hurts a little less. He never got to know Penny 40, not in any ways that counted. It feels nice to get a second chance.

After a length of time filled with Penny complaining about whatever he’s reading, which just gives Eliot the open door to complain about his own woes, and Julia switching between reprimanding them and rattling off something new she found, Penny finally stands and stretches.

“As much fun as I’m having,” he says, flatly, toeing a book closed, “I’m going to have to bow out. Maybe get some food. Literally anything more mentally stimulating than this.”

“Speak for yourself.” Julia replies easily.

“Exactly what I’m doing. Any requests?”

“Indian?” Eliot drawls, slouching further into the couch.

“Don’t be racist.”

Julia snorts. Eliot rolls his eyes. “I wasn’t, there’s a decent Indian place one block over. But fine, Thai instead.”

Penny flashes him a smile, the type he only breaks out when he specifically wants to fuck with people. It took awhile for Eliot to recognize it, but now he’s managed to catalogue it away. Among the other various facts he now knows about these people he shares a home with.

“I’ll see what I can do.” And then he’s gone with nothing left behind but the subtle fluttering of Julia’s hair.

There’s a bit more silence, as Eliot decidedly puts away the meager supply of books he was working on, and slides along the couch until his leg is pressing into Julia’s back. She doesn’t respond, just shifts her body around him, like she’s just automatically accommodating him. For some reason, the thought of her moving around Quentin comes to him unbidden. The thought of how casually affectionate Q can be, especially when he doesn’t realize it. He wonders, just then, if throughout their long friendship she’s had to deal with Quentin unknowingly pressing close to her while they’re both reading. He can imagine it, and when he focuses, when he reaches into those gauzy almost memories of his, he can see it.

Quentin with a book in his hands, pressing close to Eliot without ever taking his eyes away from the words. Starting at the far end of a little daybed they once had overlooking a mosaic, and somehow ending with his head against Eliot’s chest and his body slotted up under Eliot’s arm.

The memory leaves him warm and cold in equal measure. Like his insides are trying to thaw but the edges keep freezing back over. He finds the happiness so easily in that small moment, but the feeling of grief overpowers it, collecting all of his fleeting happiness and keeping it in a stranglehold. He wonders when it’ll stop hurting. They say time heals all wounds, but Eliot thinks that’s a bit bullshit.

Instead of dissecting his own emotions, because he can only have so much of himself before he gets sick of it, he nudges at Julia. Tries to get her attention. Nudges again until she finally glares over her shoulder at him.  
  
“Yeah?”

“Can I ask you something?”

Julia hums, glare smoothing away as she bookmarks her place. “Of course. Doesn’t mean I’ll answer.” She teases, shifting around to lean more into his leg, to face him a bit better.

“So, Penny knows about this whole venture to the Underworld? And yet, he isn’t freaking out about it?”

“He did, a little bit. But this is my decision to make. Something I want to do, something I’m going to do. We’re going to find a way down there, that hopefully doesn’t include Dragons.”

The way she says _my decision_ picks at Eliot’s mind, settles in a little lopsided. “Last I heard, Penny was the one who took away your Godly mojo.”

Her face falls, just a fraction, just enough to rearrange itself into a careful neutrality. “What’s that have to do with anything, El.”

“I’m getting there, relax.” He reaches forward and tucks some hair behind her ear, the same way he’d do for Margo. Because he needs her to know this isn’t some sort of attack. He’s curious, that’s all. “How’d you forgive him? At least, I’m assuming you did considering there’s way too much Puppy Eyes being thrown around for a man who’s in the dog house.”

Julia lets out a sigh, like she was holding her breath. Her hand finds its way to his knee, fingers curling around the curve of it. “Well, it might not look it, but I am still mad at him.” At Eliot’s raised eyebrows, she presses a smile into her shoulder, before sitting up straight. “I can be angry and forgive him at the same time. It doesn’t have to be either or. I realized that, after we really sat down and _talked_ about it. He was selfish and that’s not ok, and maybe he’s just really good at selling an apology but. What else was he meant to do? I was in a magically induced coma. He was literally the only person around to even make any sort of decision. I’m mad, but I’m more mad that the choice was taken away from me. Not that he was the one to do it.”

Shrugging, Julia lays her head next her hand, temple cradled between the subtle crevice of Eliot’s closed knees. She presses her shoulder into his shin, and her voice sounds tired all of a sudden. She sounds how he feels. Eliot once again brushes loose hair behind her ears, giving her comfort, because that’s what they do best for each other. “That makes sense.”

“And maybe that makes me stupid, and maybe I should be angrier at him but. I’m just tired, Eliot. I’m tired of losing people.”

 

\---

 

“We’re going to have to see Poppy.”

It’s said in some sort of quiet resignation. Like this is the last option Julia wanted to explore. She shuts the book on Mythos of the Underworld that she had been reading, slipping it off the table and into her lap.

“She’s the girl that’s obsessed with dragons, right? The one you mentioned when we first started Mission Impossible: Quentin Edition.”

Julia sighs. “Yep. I was just trying to circumnavigate the whole dragon thing, because they’re never easy. But, it seems like we literally have no other options. Everything else is hearsay or unproven myths. At least we _know_ dragons work. Maybe she knows something that could help.”   

“Let’s swing by, see if she’ll find a dragon willing to uber us to our death.”

She rolls her eyes at him, but there’s a fond little quirk to her lips. The book gets slipped onto the coffee table as she stands up, poking his leg as she goes. “Temporary death, Eliot. The whole point is being able to come _back_.”

Eliot just hums in reply, tipping his head back against the couch. Right, how terrible it would be, to not come back. Sometimes Eliot wonders when his default state of theatrically maudlin took a hard left turn into actual existential nihilistic thoughts, but then he’s reminded of asking Margo where Q is. Of her pressing her lips together and saying _you’re not going to like the answer, honey._

Eliot doesn’t want to die, per se. He’s not suicidal, is the thing. Sure he’s felt depressed before. With all the shit he’s been through, it’d be a miracle if he didn’t. He always had a handle on it though, was always able to wrap it up and pretend it wasn’t affecting him even when it was.

But now he’s like. _Experiencing_ depression. Like the full blown thing. This isn’t just feeling a bit depressive and then after three martini’s, a bowl of tortilla chips, and a freshman’s attention he pretends to feel better. This is deeper. Something to rival that stretch of shudder inducing time known as High School.

He doesn’t want to die though. He simply just, doesn’t want to exist. If he could close his eyes and cease to exist, that’d be pretty swell. Eliot’s mood has felt a little better ever since Julia handed him a goal. Since she set him down a path were at the end of it, something could _change_. It’s all the in between down time that has him pulling his sweater over his head and groaning dramatically and wishing things would just. Stop.

At the risk of sounding like a main love interest in some tear jerking romance film, Eliot is finding it difficult to exist in a world where Quentin isn’t even alive.

Sometimes he tries to rationalize to himself, convince himself that people die. He’s had people die in his life before. It’s just what happens. Quentin sacrificed himself for something good and. And he doesn’t get much farther than that because it always feels like hollow excuses. It’s bullshit, really. It all just feels like bullshit and there’s no way to rationalize any of it.

Quentin is gone, Eliot misses him, and he’s going to get him back, and that’s the end of it. No ifs, ands, or buts.

 

\---

 

Poppy greets them with a crying baby in one hand, and a stuffed dragon in the other. She ushers them into her apartment, already rapid fire talking.

“See, the thing is, I’m kind of on maternity leave right now, which is actually really shitty because it was _mandatory_ maternity leave, like I’m not even allowed to choose if I’d rather be in the Philippines chasing after reported cases of a _Bakunawa_ , or here with Draco. Like. C’mon.”

“You named your child _Draco_?” Eliot drawls, a slight horrified edge to his voice. Because. Really? Not only does this kid have a dragon stuffed animal, there’s also other draconic themed things peppered around what Eliot can see of the apartment. Is that a cookie jar shaped like a dragon? Holy fuck this lady has problems.

“No, what do you think I am? A crazy person?” Poppy rolls her eyes. Julia raises a quick eyebrow in a _‘well yeah’_ type of way. “His name is Kasper, with a K, because I thought it looked cool, but I call him Draco because it’s also cool.”

“Oh, right. It’s just a nickname. Much less weird.” Julia mumbles quietly to herself, and Eliot has to suppress the urge to snort.

Poppy points out the couch to them, and absently waves to it, her mouth twisting the more Kasper cries. “So you said something about the Underworld when you called? You’re trying to get _back_ to that place? I’ve never met people with more of a death wish than you.” She tries putting the little dragon in his arms, tries picking up a bottle that he obviously doesn’t want. Nothing seems to be working, and Eliot can see her visibly starting to wear thin.

“Give him here.” And just like that, Eliot plucks the baby from her arms, and settles down on the couch. He bounces Kasper on his legs, holding him up under his chubby little baby arms, humming some Fillorian nursery rhyme he can only half remember. Somehow, it manages to calm the baby down, until he’s just whimpering and trying to grasp at Eliot’s shirt.

“I don’t know what the fuck you did differently than me, but I’m glad it’s working. Thanks.”

“It’s not the first time I’ve done this.” Eliot replies without even thinking, and then something heavy settles in his stomach at the realization. He can feel the way Julia raises an eyebrow at him, but he ignores it. Instead focuses on bouncing his knee up and down, on gently running a thumb along the edges of Kasper’s face until he’s stopped crying. It’s something he used to do for Teddy, he thinks. In that well of memories that almost were, there’s the vague feeling of a little boy that looked too much like Quentin, sniffling and falling asleep in his arms whenever Eliot would trace his tiny delicate features.

He’s aware of Poppy and Julia talking, about the Underworld and dragons and her job. He knows he should be part of this, pull his weight in this entire thing. But Kasper is looking at Eliot, and his little fingers have hooked themselves into Eliot’s shirt, and that heavy thing in his stomach is melting away. The familiarity of it is digging itself into Eliot’s bones and snatching his breath.

Foggy memories coalescing and granting him snippets. Teddy as a baby, tugging on Eliot’s clothes. Memories of Quentin laughing, of Eliot watching his two boys folding laundry. They aren’t concrete, nothing but wisps of smoke that fade away if Eliot tries to chase the memory. It makes a lump form in Eliot’s throat, and he tries to swallow past the urge to cry.

He’s snapped out of it when he hears Poppy say; “No really, I can’t help. I don’t have dragons on speed-dial, and you said it yourself. You don’t have anything cool or rare to trade them.”

Eliot blinks back to the present, watches as Poppy shrugs apologetically. He can’t help but sigh, thinking about how much of a dead end this turned out to be. “So, the only other way down there is actually dying.” Which is said in the type of tone one would announce _‘we’re basically fucked.’_

There’s a beat of silence, where Kasper reaches out and tugs on one of the few curls from Eliot’s hair he can reach, and he shares a smile with Poppy. Julia sits up straighter, mouth forming a small _‘o’_ before her eyes are snapping to Eliot’s, and says; “Then I guess we have to die.”

“Oh, I didn’t know we reached the level in our friendship that includes suicide pacts.”

“I’m serious, Eliot.”

“And that’s what scares me.”

 

\---

 

If you asked Eliot how Alice got involved in this whole thing, he’d tell you it was all Dean Fogg’s fault.

They somehow found themselves seeking out the functioning alcoholic also known as their Dean, only a few short days after getting back from Poppy’s. A few days filled with Julia going through all the books they’ve collected again, and Eliot trying his best to help interspaced with him trying to remember how to make a fucking effort with his wardrobe.

The plan somehow shifted from ‘Find a way to get into the Underworld without a dragons help.’ to ‘Find a way to die that isn’t permanent.’

“I think I found something.” Julia calls, from two rows away. They’re in the Brakebill’s library, mostly because they were both getting sick of ferrying books to and from. “You know how sometimes on tv shows, they’ll kill a character but it’s only for a short time? Like, there’s a time limit before their heart has to be restarted?”

“Like on Vampire Diaries.” Eliot says, as he finds her flipping through a book.

Julia just gives him a slightly confused look. “Sure, like on Vampire Diaries.” Then, she’s shifting the book towards him, tapping at a paragraph.

It’s vague, in the way most magic is want to do. Talking about ancient history turned myth, silver strings and something just left of astral projection. Something about the soul being separate from the body but no disconnected.

“I don’t understand any of these equations though. Or really, the type of magic. And there’s no other books it references, or translations. But this feels _important_.”

Eliot sort of wishes he never mentioned Dean Fogg. Or how he obviously knew about the Rheinman Ultra, so hey, maybe he’ll know about other crazy mysterious magic.

 

“Ah, this is very old magic.” Dean Fogg sat back in his chair, taking the book with him. “Where’d you say you found this?”

“In the library.” Julia answers, and Fogg just arches his brow at her. “What? That’s not a lie.”

“No, I suppose it isn’t. But you had to dig pretty deep for it. Or who knows, maybe it’s just one of those books time forgot. And you two were just lucky enough to blindly stumble on it when you needed it the most.”

“Are you trying to say it’s a fucking Book of Requirement?”

“What?” Eliot can’t help but ask, because it sounds like a reference he’s missing out on.

“It’s a Harry Potter thing, Mr. Waugh.” Fogg replies dryly, spectacled gaze fixed on the pages.

“I _really_ should have finished that series.” Eliot grumbles.

After a silent beat, where Dean Fogg reads, and Julia and Eliot sit and wait for whatever the fuck his verdict will be, there’s a light knock on the door and then Alice is stepping in. The moment she sees them both, sitting in chairs across from Fogg’s desk, her eyes widen.

“Oh, uh. I didn’t know you were busy. I’ll come back-”

“Ms. Quin, what impeccable timing. Tell me, can you parse what this means?” And then he’s turning the book to face her, waiting patiently, just staring at her, until she gets the hint and walks into the room, closing the door behind her.

Eliot wonders what he should feel towards Alice. Should it be jealousy, that Quentin chose her? That it was her Quentin last kissed? Anger, sadness, pity? There’s a range of emotions that Eliot could feasibly feel, but none of them sit right, if he’s honest. All that’s really there, sitting low in his chest, is a weird acceptance.

 

_“So, Q and Alice?”_

_“Yeah, to tell you I was surprised to hear about that, after coming back from having a God Monster in me, would be an understatement.”_

_“Why’s that? They always seemed like they were endgame.”_

_Julia scoffs. “Maybe because I spent weeks watching Quentin run himself ragged trying to save you. Or, because I saw him stare down the Monster and say he’d tear the whole world down just to make sure you were ok. And for what? For him to apparently kiss Alice in a desperate attempt at normalcy the moment I’m kidnapped? Seems ass backwards to me.”_

_“He really said he’d tear the world apart?”_

_“Yeah, he did.” Julia sighs. “He never said it out loud but. He loved you, Eliot. I could see it every moment he wasn’t sleeping, every minute he spent reading and researching and placating the Monster. So. Yeah. Ending up with Alice in his final moments was a bit of a shocker.”_

_“I rejected him. Why would he wait for me?”_

 

Alice makes a little noise, as she huddles close to the Dean’s desk, bringing Eliot back from the memory. He finally looks at her, really looks at her, and he takes stock of what she’s wearing. It looks like business chic got amnesia and tried to remember what it was solely based on the recounting of a paper bag. Her skirt is short, naturally, and her shirt as always crawls high on her neck. But it’s all in muted tones, and the skirt is more a-line then anything she wore in her Brakebills days.

Eliot remembers Penny saying something about Alice working with the Library. Eliot decides in this moment he’d rather actually die than work for them, because the dress code alone would drive him to suicide.

“This is old magic, like. Really old. Where’d you even get this book?”

Julia presses her lips together, her agitation mounting. “The school’s library.” Alice makes another noise, tapping at something on the page and bending to show Dean Fogg.

“If this means what I think it does…” Alice trails, eyes wide and blinking from behind her thick framed glasses.

“Yes, I think it does.” Fogg pulls out a bottle of whiskey from under his desk and fills a tumbler close to full. He seems unbothered by this all, and honestly it's not a surprise. Eliot has realized by now that the Dean is only concerned when the wll being of his school is on the line. Anything that he doesn't consider his problem, is just something he can weigh his opinion on.

“Anyone willing to share with the class?” Eliot snaps, his fingers curling into the armrests of the chair. This is getting ridiculous, the way they’re talking around each other, and he just wants to _know_. Wants the next part of the plan.

Alice looks up at them both, eyes skipping between Julia and Eliot. “What do you need this for, anyways?”

Before Julia or Eliot can flounder for an answer, some sort of excuse. Before they can decide exactly how much to say, because they hadn’t even explained it all to the Dean, he cuts them off.

“I believe they’re looking for a way to get Mr. Coldwater back from the dead.”

Alice snaps the book shut, her shoulders straightening, eyes steeling. Like she's come to some sort of decision. “It’s some sort of magic that exists outside of how we, Magicians, practice. It’s like a potion of some sort. Magic distilled to a pure form and broken into two parts. The initial concoction that will trigger a soul to be broken away from the body, and a counter agent to pull it back.”

“That's amazing, how do we get it?” Julia is already standing up, looking between Fogg and Alice, waiting for directions or instructions. Eliot has an unsettling feeling it won’t be that easy.

“I can help you make it. I’ve seen equations like this in some of my dad’s old books.”

“Why do I sense a _but_ coming.”  

“Because I want to help get Quentin back, and you need me for this.”

Dean Fogg slams back the rest of his whiskey and places his glass onto the desk top with a thud. “Nothing like a bit of blackmail to get your blood pumping.”

 

\---

 

Penny and Margo suddenly appear in the middle of the living room, and just as quickly Penny turns and heads up the staircase. “If you need me,” he says. “Don’t.” And then he’s gone.

Eliot stands up from where he was lamenting on the couch, smoothing out the edges of his cardigan. He might want to set fire to every single tshirt the Monster ever owned, but he has to admit. The sweaters and cardigans it left behind aren’t half bad. Very comfortable and perfect depression clothes.

“I wasn’t expecting to see you. How’s the search to become King going?” He asks, once Margo has clutched at his hands and checked him over to make sure he’s still present and alive. Because he hasn’t heard any news on the Fillorian front in at least two days. Which is positively a drought where Margo is considered.

“Oh right. That’s what I came to talk to you about.”

“Oh?” And now he’s curious. Here he was, thinking this was just Margo missing him.

“First of all; I found a way to become High King again.”

“Bambi, that’s wonderful!”

“Secondly. You’re invited to my wedding.”

“Wait. What?” This entire conversation is shaping up to turn Eliot’s day on its head. The whiplash he’s gotten from waking up to Julia and Alice working together in their makeshift office, to crawling onto the couch and wallowing, and now Margo throwing herself onto the couch and talking about a _wedding_.

“ _Listen,_ some things didn’t exactly go to plan, alright? No need to fucking talk about it. The short of it all is that Fen and I are getting married, _capice_?” Her plum colored Fillorian dress drapes around her legs as she swings her feet up to rest them on the coffee table.

“Should I congratulate you? Open up a bottle of bubbly? I don’t know how to react when you deliver the news of your impending matrimony with such vitriol.”

Julia enters just then, from the room off of the living space. It's where her and Alice have been holed up for the past few hours. He doesn't exactly understand most of what they're doing in there, with their books and beakers and bowls from the kictchen. Which is why he was laying on the couch, lost in his own emotions before Margo appeared. She pauses for a moment, clearly on her way towards Eliot, as she takes in the scene of them both, and she subtly changes course, walking towards the kitchen. “Hey Margo. How’s the King stuff going?”

“You’re invited too, I suppose.” Margo replies, with that specific tone only Margo can carry. Like she’s presenting you with an amazing gift, but she’s being so casual about it.

“Invited to what?”

“My wedding.”

Julia blinks, manages to take the news in stride. “...Ok. Should I bring a dress?”

Margo looks her up and down. “One will be provided for you. Don’t worry.” And then she’s turning back to Eliot, almost dismissive. “What about you, anyways? Think you’re up to coming back and helping plan this thing with me?”

“I don’t know,” Eliot hedges. “It’s been slow going for me. I don’t know if I’m up for the whole, Fillory Planning scene just yet.” He shrugs, trying for casual but feeling like he’s missed the mark. “Besides, Julia and I are heading to the movies, like some old fashioned outing. Doing normal things is meant to be part of the healing process, or whatever.”

Margo smiles at him, that closed lip one when she’s especially amused. “Alright. Ok. Don’t tell me what’s really going on. I should get going, let you scheme away to your hearts content.”

“Margo-"

“No no, it’s ok. I guess couples need some secrets to themselves. You go and do whatever it is you don’t want to bother me with. But Eliot, if you need me, let me know.”

Eliot sighs, knowing he’s been beaten. “I will.”

Margo stands up, smoothing out her dress as she does. “And don’t get into too much trouble. I only just got you back.”

“I know.” He pulls her close, and plants a kiss on her lips. “Now go and plan a wedding to your dream girl. At least one of us deserves it.”

“ _Eliot-"_ She sighs his name, much like he did to her, and so he continues to mirror. Cuts her off before she can really start in. 

“Go. Go find Penny to uber you back to Fillory. I love you.”

“Oh, now I know you’re _really_ up to something.”

“Can’t you just appreciate it?”

“I love you too, even though you’re being super fucking sus. And remember. If you need _anything_ -“

“Yes yes. Goodbye my sweet, the light of my life. You will be dearly missed.” Eliot smooths down her hair, feeling a real smile curl at his mouth. It's easy with her, to feel happy and weightless. Like things are ok, as long as Margo is telling him she loves him and she'll always be there. 

Once she’s gone, strutting up the stairs and yelling for Penny, Julia walks over. “Is there a reason you didn’t tell her?”

Eliot sighs. He feels like he's been doing that a lot lately. “She would have wanted to come with. We already have Alice tagging along, there’s no need to fill this ride pass capacity.”

Julia hums, reaching out to give his hand a quick, reassuring squeeze. This feels right, too. In a different way than when he has Margo in his arms, but still some level of the same quite contentedness. He has the thought again, of how natural holding Julia's hand feels. The same thought he has whenever they're fingers find each other. That's another thing Eliot doesn't mind, one of the few good after effects of housing a God Monster. The warmth and safety that settles in his bones whenever Julia grabs his hand and tells him things will be ok. 

It's enough to make him almost believe her.

**Author's Note:**

> if you like my writing, please check out;  
> [my twitter!](https://twitter.com/kaijucats)  
> [my tumblr!](https://donutcats.tumblr.com/)


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